


how to fill an empty room

by Satherene



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Accidental Torture, Hurt/Comfort, MT Prompto Argentum, Mistaken Identity, Past Child Abuse, Prompto Whump, vague but blunt mentions of past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-05-08 23:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14704302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Satherene/pseuds/Satherene
Summary: "Come with me," says the commander.This is an odd time to be led away, the unit thinks. Alarms are blaring throughout the base, red lights flashing, and all serviceable units have been put on high alert. Most likely, there has been an attack on the base.And yet, the commander has opened a defective unit's chamber and commanded him to follow. Perhaps somehow the commander doesn't notice the alarms. But it seems unlikely. And instead of his regular uniform, the commander is wearing a uniform that the unit has never seen before. Everything about this is odd, the unit thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there everyone. Long-time lurker, first-time poster. Had an idea and kind of ran with it. Yeaaaaaah

"Come with me," says the commander.

This is an odd time to be led away, the unit thinks. Alarms are blaring throughout the base, red lights flashing, and all serviceable units have been put on high alert. Most likely, there has been an attack on the base.

And yet, the commander has opened a defective unit's chamber and commanded him to follow. Perhaps somehow the commander doesn't notice the alarms. But it seems unlikely. And instead of his regular uniform, the commander is wearing a uniform that the unit has never seen before. Everything about this is odd, the unit thinks.

But he allows himself to ponder it all for only a short moment. Then he follows his orders. He steps out of the chamber, and follows the commander.

They walk briskly down a few corridors, and arrive at the commander's quarters. His commander uniform — thick underclothes and heavy plate armor — is currently piled on a table.

"Remove your uniform," the commander says, as he yanks open the drawer on a piece of furniture.

The unit begins removing his uniform.

The commander grabs things from the drawer, and shoves them into a bag. He paces the room, collecting more items that he puts in the bag. He keeps looking at the bay of surveillance monitors.

Once the unit has removed his uniform, the commander gestures to his commander clothes on the table. "Put those on," he says.

The unit pauses, and looks back at him. He isn't sure he heard him right. This isn't normally how this goes.

"Go on," the commander says. And when the unit looks at him for a moment longer, he snarls, and draws back his hand — and then there's pain bursting across the side of the unit's face.

"You drooling idiot," the commander spits. "I said, Put. Them. On!"

The unit walks over to the table and begins to put on the commander's clothes. The alarms are still blaring. His pulse throbs in his cheek.

"Quickly!" the commander yells.

The unit puts on the clothes as quickly as he is able.

As he does so, the commander grabs a few more things to put into the bag, and then he closes it up.

He pockets a large folding knife that had also been laying on the table. He grabs a revolver of unfamiliar make from the table as well, and loads rounds into the chamber.

The unit finishes putting on the armor over the underclothes, securing the final gauntlet into place. Then he stands at attention, and awaits further instruction.

The commander has the bag over his shoulder, now. The gun is still in his hand.

He lifts it and points it at the unit's head.

...The commander plans to shoot him.

The unit stares at the barrel, for what seems like a very long time, but must not be long at all. He wonders why this is happening, tries to remember if he's done something to warrant it. But he knows being defective is grounds to be destroyed, in and of itself. And regardless, the 'why' isn't his concern.

He pictures what will happen when the commander fires. From this close, the bullet will destroy his skull completely, and the unit will die.

His heart kicks up, instinct urging him to do something to stop this from happening — but training overrides it. He waits for the trigger to be pulled — closes his eyes, even though no one's permitted him to. The insubordinance won't matter, soon.

There is a sound behind him, of something bursting through the door. And then there is the sound of the gun firing.

The unit flinches — realizes he flinched — realizes he is still here to realize things.

He is not dead.

His eardrum's are ringing. The gun fired, but it didn't hit him; it went past him.

He opens his eyes. The commander is running away; he hides behind the doorway on the other side of the room, and angles his arm back inside to fire another round.

The unit turns, searching for what the commander is firing at.

There are people in the opposite doorway. They duck back behind it as more bullets fly — one, and another and another.

And then the commander darts away from the door, and is gone.

The new people advance into the room. One of them throws a sword in the direction the commander went — and then he disappears.

Shards of blue light glimmer where he had just been. The unit stares onward, wondering for a moment if maybe he did die, and this is somehow not real. But the pain in his left ear feels very real.

The two other people did not disappear. One is very large and broad, the other shorter and thin.

The large one launches at him, knocks him off his balance and takes him backward onto the floor. He forces his knee below the unit's chest armor, on top of his diaphragm, and presses. It makes it unfeasible to breathe.

Then he wraps one large hand around his neck, and he can't breathe at all.

The unit gasps silently, until his hands reach up of their own accord, instinctively clawing at the man's arm in an attempt to get him off. But he has no oxygen, and in turn, no strength. His vision is going dark around the edges.

And then the man lets off some of the pressure.

The unit sucks in a precious sliver of air. It's not nearly enough.

The man looks angry. He's saying something, too. But the unit's ears are ringing, and hot wetness is leaking from his left ear. He can see the man's mouth moving, and he hears muffled sound beneath the ringing in his head, but he can't quite make it out.

He reads his lips, and focuses very hard on his hearing.

"Where's the car?" it sounds like he says, except he might have heard that last word wrong, because he doesn't know what it means.

"The — car?" he barely chokes out, hoping to clarify.

"Where is it?" The man repeats.

"I don't —" the unit struggles for enough air to speak. "I don't know."

The man raises an eyebrow, still frowning. "You sure about that?"

"Yes," he says. He is absolutely sure that he doesn't know. He doesn't know what they mean; he doesn't know what is happening at all.

The man presses down hard on his diaphragm again.

Another person steps into his frame of vision, says what sounds like: "Lost him." It's the one who disappeared into thin air earlier. He's reappeared, somehow.

The one who disappeared says something else, but the unit can't make it out. He can't breathe.

"Doesn't matter," the large one says. "We got the important one right here." His hand flexes around his throat, his fingers wrapped nearly all the way around. He looks the unit in the eyes, and leans in. It makes it easier to hear. "Listen up. If you're stalling for the backup you radioed or something, it ain't gonna arrive in time for you, alright? We'll make sure of that." He squeezes again as he says the last part, enough that the unit's eyes feel the pressure.

The unit heard him perfectly this time, but it still didn't help him understand. He tries to find a command hidden in the man's sentence, but it's indecipherable.

Another voice says something. The large one looks toward it, and the unit's eyes strain to the right as well. He sees the third man, pointing to the surveillance screens at the table.

He's pointing to a specific monitor. The one that shows the secondary hangar, and the vehicle that is stored in it —

The vehicle. Is that what they mean by "car"? He does know where it is, if they're talking about the sleek black machine that was brought into the facility two weeks ago.

He grabs at the man's forearm. "In the... secondary hangar," he strains out, eager to give an answer he knows — anything that will let him breathe again.

"Oh, so now you know." the large one says, and snorts. "Changed your tune real quick, huh?"

The large one takes his hand off his throat. The unit gasps for air, falling limp as relief floods his body.

The one who disappeared comes into view, and he's pointing the sword at him.

"You gonna run?" he asks.

It's a strange question, but at least the unit can answer it. "No," he says between deep, sucking breaths.

And then the large one is taking his weight off of the unit's torso, and dragging him to his feet by the bottom ridge of the commander's chest armor. "Let's go."

The unit leads them down a few corridors, a sword poking into his back the entire way. They step out into the open yard, and he heads for the hangar, his exposed skin grateful that it's night outside.

They run into very few functional units on the way, and the one's they do are destroyed with ease. Their weapons pop into and out of existence, and the one who disappeared earlier does it again several more times, vanishing and reappearing wherever he throws his sword. It's likely they destroyed all the other MTs as well, the unit thinks. He wonders if they'll destroy him once he shows them the vehicle.

They reach the large door at the front of the hangar; he is not permitted to open it unless he is directed to, and so he stands at attention.

"Well, then," says the one who pointed at the monitor, after a beat. The unit's hearing has recovered a little — it's easier to understand him now. "How shall we open this door?" he asks.

"You can't," the unit answers.

The large one smacks him across the head. His ear bursts with a fresh new wave of pain, and he tastes ichor, before it quickly dissolves away and he tastes only blood.

"Why don't you try again?" the large one growls.

"You can't open the door," the unit says, his head reeling. "An MT unit or the base commander must open the door."

"Alright, you little smartass," he shoves him forward. "Open it, then."

The unit steps to the keypad. He removes his gauntlet, scans his identification code, and the door begins rolling up.

The one who disappeared snorts. "What, Niffs really so dumb they gotta tattoo their keycards on?" he says. He stretches out an arm toward him, the one holding the sword, and glares.

"Y'know, the Regalia's got plenty of room. How about you ride along with us, _commander_?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some more poor misunderstood Prompto. Whoops.

When they went to take back the Regalia, Noctis really wasn't expecting to take an Imperial officer, too.

But some things kind of just happen these days.

Noctis is leaning up against the car in question now, suppressing a yawn as he waits for Gladio to join him. They ended up driving straight through the night in case any nearby patrols were looking for them, and usually he'd have caught a nap at least. But the threat of daemons and empire soldiers — not to mention the captured enemy commander in the backseat — made it a little hard to relax.

The sun was already up by the time they reached the haven a couple hours ago. They parked their newly recovered ride nearby, under a grove of trees and out of sight from roving ships. Half of him doesn't want to let it out of his sight ever again.

The other half can't keep his eyes off their guest.

The guy's sitting at the haven now, hands tied behind his back as Ignis keeps watch. Even from this far away, he sticks out like a sore thumb with his pale hair and bulky Imperial armor. And he doesn't seem to be doing too well in the rising heat, either. He's barely upright — in a constant cycle of listing over to the side and righting himself just before he topples.

In any other case, it'd be pitiful. But he's a genocidal Niff. So instead, it feels like a tiny slice of justice.

Footsteps sound to his left, and Noctis looks over to see Gladio, bundle of freshly cut firewood balanced over his shoulder.

"Feels good to have our camping gear back," Gladio says. "All those motels and caravans had me feeling cramped."

"You and no one else," Noctis says with a shake of his head. "Specs'll stop spazzing over our pocketbook, at least."

Gladio grunts in response, and looks over toward the haven. "Just in time for something new to worry about."

Yeah, that.

"What do we do with him?" Noctis asks.

"You're the one who decided to take him. You telling me you didn't have a plan?"

Noctis waves a dismissive hand. "Tch, don't need one. That's what you guys're for."

"Wow. Spoken like a true king," Gladio snarks, and brings his free hand down to smack Noctis on the shoulder, hard enough to have staggered him if he weren't braced against the Regalia. "We'll see if we can get anything out of him," he says. "Doesn't seem to take much to get him belly up. When we're done, guess we'll hand him off to the Crownsguard."

Noctis shrugs. "Sounds good enough to me." He looks back over at the Niff, armor glinting in the overhead sun. "Not really what I expected from someone named 'Commander Toxilius Carnifex,' to be honest."

Gladio snorts. "If he and that Loqi punk're anything to go by, the Empire's got a thing for runty brats with fancy pedigrees and no martial sense," Gladio says. "Kid's not military material at all. Built like a beanpole in that ridiculous oversized armor. Wilts like a flower, too, and it's hardly eighty degrees."

"Yeah," Noctis says with a roll of his eyes. "it's like he's never seen the sun before."

"Wouldn't doubt it. Guy's pasty, even for a snow rat. Looks like a damn ghost."

And it's true. He's pallid, but it's more than that. His skin's almost... grey. It's creepy. And he's got the kind of eyes you really don't want looking at you for too long. Everything about this guy feels wrong — well, wronger than having a Niff in their camp already is. He wouldn't mind getting it over with.

Noctis pushes off from the side of the Regalia, shrugging off Gladio's hand as he clasps his arms above his head to stretch his aching back. "Well, do your thing, I guess," he says. He feels like it's gonna be a long day. "The less time he's with us, the better."

 

\-----

 

It burns.

The armor is hot under the overhead sun, and the thick cloth underneath is drenched in his sweat. It’s difficult to breathe underneath all the layers, the air thick like water.

But even so, the unit wishes the uniform covered more of him.

When the unit was at the testing facility at Zegnautus Keep, researchers would sometimes perform a test where they exposed daemons to differing intensities of light. Then they would examine the reaction, writing things down on their papers as the creatures thrashed, emitting their, strange, sharp howls until they scorched away into nothing.

The unit once watched them do the same with a functional unit after they pried it open. He'd always hoped they would never get the idea to submit him to that particular test, though he wondered exactly how it would affect a defective unit like himself.

Now he doesn't have to wonder.

Because it burns, sharp and scorching, where the light touches the exposed skin of his face and neck.

The ichor running within him is boiling — screaming, jumping within his veins. But unlike with the daemons, it doesn't end; his corporeality is a barrier, the scourge unable to evaporate away. So it just keeps on, an endless revolt inside him. Like being burned from the inside.

There must also be something happening with this flat area of rock they've settled on — the white symbols embedded into the stone have nauseated him ever since he stepped over their threshold. His entire body feels it, not just the exposed parts. There's a sick, hot churning in his stomach, and every time he so much as looks down at the bright curves and lines of the symbols beneath him, he feels as if he's going to vomit.

His damaged ear doesn't help, aching incredibly as it throbs in time with his pulse. The world won't stop spinning. He sways again, and struggles to straighten back up before he keels over.

He's thirsty. So thirsty. His throat hurts, both from the hand wrapped around it earlier and the lack of water. His eyes are dry, and he blinks repeatedly, an ineffective attempt to conjure up tears.

It's an exercise in self-restraint not to curl in on himself to shield his skin. It's all he can do not to writhe like those daemons. The unit wants to hide, to drag himself off this rock and find a scrap of shade to tuck himself away under, any reprieve from the lashing rays of light.

But he has been ordered not to move. So he forces himself to stay seated upright, blinking against the dryness of his eyes and swallowing painfully against his arid throat.

The unit wonders how much longer he has to endure this. He wonders what happened to the commander, and what he is supposed to do now. Things have become so different, so suddenly.

In front of him, there's a heavy thump — the unit opens eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed.

The large one has sat down on the ground in front of him. He is looking at the unit, his brows drawn down, sharp and scrutinizing. The unit freezes, wonders if he's going to be punished for letting his eyes slip closed.

The large one is no longer wearing the outer part of his uniform. The unit sees now that there's a large image that travels up his arms and onto his chest. Perhaps some strange sort of identification code. Except he's human.

And the large one is holding something; it's a clear, plastic, cylindrical vessel, and it is filled with water.

As the large one sits there, staring at the unit, he opens the top, then lifts it to his mouth and takes a drink. The unit watches, and his eyes follow the vessel as the large one sets it on the ground.

The unit looks back up, and sees the large one was watching him watch the vessel. The large one raises an eyebrow.

"Thirsty?" He says.

The question, like everything else they say, has unfamiliar phrasing. But the intonation is clear, at least.

He goes to answer, but his throat is in poor condition — bruised, raw and dry — and nothing comes out but a brittle, cracked noise.

He tries again. "Yes," he manages this time, strained and barely there.

The large one looks at him for a good, long moment. "Hmm, that's too bad," he says. He picks up the bottle again, and shakes it a bit. "Might be able to share some."

He is... offering the possibility of giving the unit some of his own provisions? That can't be correct.

The opportunity to have some of the water sounds too impossible to be true. But the possibility takes him over, commands the entirety of his focus.

"...That is, if you give us some info we could use," the large one says.

It doesn't make sense. Trading is what scientists or officers do with each other. The unit will give this human information if he asks for it. There's no point in offering the water as a trade.

The unit should mention this, but he doesn't. The possibility of getting the water is too overpowering.

Slowly, and with great effort, the unit says: "What information do you want?"

"What do you think will be of interest to us?"

"I don't know."

The large one leans back. "Let's start with this, then. Where were you before you were stationed in Lucis?"

From snatches of conversations he's picked up, the unit has figured that Lucis is the name of the territory where his base is located. So he’s asking where the unit was before he arrived at his current base.

"Zegnautus Keep," the unit says.

"Zegnautus.... That's in Gralea,” says the large one. “Where they make Magitek soldiers, right?"

"No. Soldiers are created at production facilities. Zegnautus is where they are trained and tested."

"Hmm. So you were involved with the training of MT soldiers at Zegnautus?"

"Yes," the unit says. The question is worded oddly, and the unit could be more specific in his answer. But his throat is extremely sore, and it's becoming even more painful to speak. The ichor searing his insides makes concentration challenging, as well.

The units eyes travel down, unfocused, to stare at the vessel of water on the ground. Then he realizes what he's doing and quickly brings them back up.

The large one didn't seem to notice, this time. He's nodding his head and looking away, appearing to consider the information.

"Might like to hear more about that later," he says. "And when did you arrive in Lucis?"

The unit doesn't know; he has no reason to keep track of time. He tries to think about how many times he has slept since he arrived at the base, but it's difficult to think of anything, right now. He can barely focus enough to make an estimate.

"Approximately twelve weeks ago," he decides on.

And since arriving here, what's been your main directive?"

"To follow orders," the unit says.

The large one stares at him. "And what do you mean by that?"

"I follow orders," he says. He doesn't know what else the large one wants. It hurts to speak, and he hopes he doesn’t have to do it much longer.

The large one frowns, crossing his arms. "Okay, smartass. What are your orders?"

"To..." the unit says. "T-to...." His breath hitches. He doesn't know how to answer. What are his orders? He can't think. Everything hurts, so much. "The orders," he says, voice barely there. "There are many orders."

The world turns harshly, and he lists. A hand catches him. It pushes him back upright.

The unit can't focus. He can barely squint his eyes open with how bright the sun suddenly seems. "Alright, alright," the large one says. "This doesn't have to be hard, kid. Just answer the questions."

He proceeds to ask the unit other things, about infantry numbers and tactical strategy and information about the location of 'astrals.' The unit has never not known the answer to so many questions in a row. With every answer of 'I don't know,' the large one becomes more irritated.

"Look," he finally says, "You can either talk to us, or don't. And then we'll just give you over to the Crownsguard, and we’ll see how far the playin' dumb routine gets you." He leans in toward the unit, and lowers his voice. "Just how nice do you think they'll be to a Niff commander?"

The unit doesn't know how to answer that question, nor does he understand why it's relevant. He doesn't understand much, recently. But he doesn't want to say 'I don't know' again and make him angry. He looks blearily back at the human, unsure of what he can do to appease him.

The large one stares at him for a moment that draws out forever. Then he leans back, and says: "Well. Gave you a chance."

He snatches the vessel, tips it back, and with a few large gulps, he drinks all the water.

The unit watches it disappear, his stomach plummeting in dismay.

The large one crushes the vessel in his hand, and throws it off to the side. He gets up with a grunt and dusts off his uniform. "Enjoy the afternoon," he says, and walks a couple yards away to sit in a cloth chair, next to the two other humans. He pulls out one of those thick manuscripts with a hard front and back, and begins reading it.

Having some of the water wasn't possible, after all. The large one was mistaken, and once he realized it, he rescinded his offer.

The unit wonders if he'll be punished for not informing the large one of this earlier. He wonders if he'll be punished for making the large one angry. But nothing else happens.

The large one doesn't look back at the unit. None of them do. But the unit knows they are watching him. Someone is always watching.

Instead of water, the unit swallows down his disappointment — his desperation — and continues to sit at attention. He knew better than to have hoped. Human rations are not meant for him.

 

\-----

 

The day is long and merciless.

It passes by in an excrutiating, endless blur. The unit doesn't know how long he's been sitting here since he spoke to the large one, but quite some time must have passed, given the altered angle of the sun.

He's aware that the large one and the slender one who wears glasses are talking. They're sitting in the cloth chairs, voices quiet and intent, but the unit is so dizzy, and that's all the detail he can really grasp. The one who disappeared sits between them, arms crossed and head rested on the back of the chair. He doesn't move, or enter the conversation.

Their talking grows in volume, until the one with the glasses says, loud enough to hear: "He won't do us much good with heatstroke."

"Fine," the large one says, and sighs. The unit watches from the corner of his eye as he gets up, walks over to a thick plastic box, and throws open its hinged lid. Then he reaches inside. He pulls something out, too blurry for the unit to see.

The large one stomps over to the unit.

He's holding another plastic vessel of water. He unscrews the top of the vessel, and then lifts it down in front of the unit's face. His large form casts a shadow over the unit, blocking out the sun.

For an incredible moment, the searing pain lessens.

The ichor within him quiets, its violent rebellion in his veins lowering to a simmer. He's so dizzy with relief that he doesn't quite take in what's happening in front of him. He stares mindlessly at the water — clear and shining in the vessel, like a dream.

The large one shoves it toward him, closer to his face, and looks like he expects something. The unit doesn't understand. He looks up at the large one, hoping for some sort of command.

"Well, if you don't want it," he says, and starts to walk away. And his shadow goes with him, the sensation ramping right back up to its full agony.

"Gladio," comes a call from the one with the glasses. There's a sharp tone to his voice. The large one makes a grumbling noise and turns back around.

He looks down at the unit, shoves the vessel into his face again, the blessed shadow returning. The unit tries to absorb the brief moment of reprieve, gathering up as much resolve as he can.

"Drink." the large one says.

It takes a minute to set in. He looks up at the large one again, tries to confirm that he heard correctly.

"Go on," he says.

If that's what the large one is commanding... he can do that. He wants to do that, so badly.

He leans forward, and the large one meets him the rest of the way. He puts the opening to his mouth and tips it forward.

The water feels incredible going down his throat, so good that he doesn't even care how painful it feels to swallow. He's not sure how much he's supposed to drink, or is allowed to drink, but he keeps going, and the large one lets him.

Eventually, all the water is gone. The pain remains, but his mouth and throat are wet again. Everything is a small amount more bearable, now.

"Wait," the one with the glasses says, then, hand on his chin. "Lets get that ridiculous chest piece off as well. Can't imagine how Imperials can breathe in all those layers."

The large one rolls his eyes.

They untie his hands, tell him not to "try anything" as they slip the chest armor off over his head, and tie his hands again. It's less hot, a little easier to breathe without the heavy armor. Holding himself upright is easier as well.

The humans walk away again, and the large one's shadow leaves with him. He stares after it with a pain of longing so sharp he has to cut a whimper short in his throat.

The unit forces himself to focus on how the sun is much farther down now. It's beginning to meet the line of those tall, green-topped plants, and the swathe of shadow cast out in the rolling, green land in front of them will soon crawl up to meet him. He just has to wait.

And drinking the water helped. He can weather it better now that he isn’t worrying about thirst.

Slowly, time passes, and the humans busy themselves with activities the unit does not understand the purpose of. The large one puts together an odd cloth contraption that takes up a sizable amount of space on the rock, and then he stacks columns of some sort of fuel in front of the chairs, and creates a fire. The thin one sets up a small station with a table and begins gathering objects onto it. The one who disappeared doesn't move from his position in the chair. Because he's asleep, the unit realizes.

In the meantime, the shadow reaches the unit, and the agony from the direct sunlight steadily recedes to a manageable amount of pain. It makes it much easier to follow his orders.

An increasingly intensifying scent wafts over from the direction of the one with the glasses. The unit has never smelled anything quite like it — but his stomach growls, even though he feels ill, and saliva fills his mouth as if in anticipation. Whatever it is, his irrational and immediate desire is to eat it. So it must be human rations.

The unit looks away, trying not to think about how good the smell is. Units receive their rations in the morning, or not at all; his stomach should have learned by now that he doesn’t eat in the evening, and he never eats human rations.

The one with the glasses speaks. “Dinner is nearly served, Gladio, if you would rouse his Highness.”

The large one leans over and grabs the one who disappeared by the shoulder. Then he shakes him, until the one who disappeared bats him away with a groan, sitting up in his chair. The one with the glasses walks over to the two of them, holding two circular plates.

The one who disappeared looks barely awake as he takes a plate. “Thanks, Specs,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with his other hand. He stretches and blinks a few times. Then he lifts his head and looks directly at the unit.

The unit looks away, once again caught staring out of turn. The pain is making his head fuzzy, causing him to be careless.

But he’s accustomed to those sensations. He shouldn’t be making so many errors. He stares down at a spot on the ground a few feet away, determined to properly follow orders.

The one with the glasses returns to the station, his feet cutting through the unit’s field of vision.

"Really, Iggy?" the large one says.

The one with the glasses speaks, closer to the unit than expected: "The Empire may not have manners, but we do.”

Then he is kneeling down by the unit.

He sets a plate down next to him. Then he unties the unit’s hands, pulls them forward, and reties them at the front. He walks back to the station, grabs a plate for himself, and sits down by the others.

The humans eat their rations in silence.

The unit looks down at the plate. There is a tool sitting on the side. Contained within is a bed of small white grains, smothered on top with a yellowish paste that contains large, cubed chunks. The smell is so much stronger now, warm and indescribable, and the glands below his tongue ache. He's never seen anything like this, much less eaten it — and yet his stomach twists in unchecked desire.

Is this a test?

He is not permitted to have human rations. But earlier, he was given a human water ration. Maybe that means he is permitted to have this, as well. Or maybe it's meant to test his ability to refrain from action unless given orders. But that would be unusual. He hasn't been given a test that rudimentary since he was very small.

….No. If he was permitted to eat this food, then one of the humans would have directed him to eat it, like they did earlier with the water. It’s a test.

The unit doesn’t move, just as he was ordered. And just like he used to, he treats the food like he doesn’t even realize it’s there — although he very, very much knows it is there.

As the humans eat, to his immense relief, night comes. But the ichor within him doesn’t calm completely. He suspects it's because of those symbols on the rock, which morphed from bright white to a harsh blue glow as the daylight faded. The unit wonders if they somehow hold the sun's power within them.

The one with the glasses takes his and the other humans’ plates. He looks at the unit's plate, but doesn't collect it. He takes the other plates to the station, and spends a while there doing something else.

There are so many sounds, the unit realizes. The unfamiliar buzzes and other strange noises coming from the land surrounding the rock. The low crackle coming from the fire, and the clattering sounds the one with the glasses is making at the station, and the ringing in his damaged ear. The unit takes them all in, and tries not to think about the rations.

"You can take first watch, seeing as you've already had your nap,” the one with the glasses says as he returns from the station.

The one who disappeared groans. “Fine,” he says, and the other two remove their shoes, step inside the large cloth contraption and zip the opening shut.

The one who disappeared clears his throat, and then pulls a small flat rectangle from his uniform pocket. It lights up on one side, illuminating his face. He taps at it, over and over. Sometimes he taps faster, sometimes slower. Sometimes he heaves a large, drawn out sigh, and stops tapping completely, only to start again after a couple of minutes.

Then the one who disappeared looks up, and meets the unit’s stare.

The unit quickly looks away, filled with instant regret. Humans don't like when units look at them out of turn, and he’s done it with this one twice, now. It’s likely he’ll be punished for it.

"You just gonna sit like that all night?" The one who disappeared says, after a moment of silence. "I mean, do whatever, I guess. But if I were you, I'd take an opportunity to sleep." And then he yawns, as if for proof.

Sleep. He's been permitted to sleep. He thinks so, at least.

He waits a moment. And then slowly, he lowers himself down, trying his best not to slump as he does so. His legs have been asleep for some time after spending so many hours in the same position, and it’s difficult to move them. Still, it’s easier than it would have been if his arms were still tied in the back instead of the front.

After some careful adjusting, the unit manages to maneuver himself onto his side. He waits for the one who disappeared to say something, or order him to get up.

He waits until enough time passes that he thinks he must be safe. Then he lets his muscles finally relax, sagging against the cooling rock.

It hurts, to lay himself down so close against those symbols. But his body wants so badly to rest, and there’s nothing that can be done. The unit shifts, attempting to find a less awkward position, and his face brushes against a symbol.

The curved line lashes across his cheek like a brand — he flinches away, a small cry slipping out.

He freezes, glances over toward the human to see if he noticed. But the one who disappeared doesn’t look up, back to tapping at the light-producing device.

Carefully, the unit lays his head back down, situating it strategically on a bare patch of the rock. He slowly scoots his arms up to rest his face against his bicep. Then he makes sure to stay very still. 

He is so tired, but now he doesn’t if know he'll be able to rest. The wafting scent of the food next to him is torturous, as well as the way the ground bites at his skin. He already wishes he had more water.

He wonders what will happen next. He’s made so many errors today, but hasn’t been punished. He wonders if they’re saving it for tomorrow.

He runs through it all, over and over again, wondering what's in store for him. But then the exhaustion in his body catches up to his mind, and it’s not long before sleep takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gladio wasn't trying to torture the poor kid, per se, y'know? Just wanted to make him uncomfortable. Too bad the guys didn't realize that they were actually totally torturing him. Oops!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: emetophobes beware. Substantial depictions of nausea and vomiting to follow.
> 
> Uhhh, sorry everyone. Not only did life kinda sneak up on me, yada-yada — I also had another idea for a short fic that absolutely wouldn't let me focus on anything else until I'd sketched it out. But the good news is, I ended up splitting this up into two chapters, so the next one should come out much quicker.
> 
> Anyway, here's chapter three, which should alternatively be titled: prompto has the most stressful meal of his life.

The sun rouses him from dark and empty sleep, burning its greeting deep under his flesh.

The unit's reaction is involuntary. He cowers from the scouring light before he's entirely lucid, rolling forward to bury his head into his arms on instinct — and burrowing his face directly against a symbol. There's a crack of bright white pain from his forehead to his chin — sharp and sudden, like the lash of a whip.

This time, when he flinches away, his voice is too cracked to make a noise.

He buries his head back down, more careful, now. But the light is undeterred, doubling down on the back of his neck instead.

The past day comes back to him as he slowly remembers where he is: on a flat rock unhidden from the sun, far from the base, under the command of three humans he had never seen before the previous night.

The unit has no idea how long he'll stay here, unprotected like this. He contemplates, miserably, that the light isn't even yet at its full strength. This is just like how it always felt after surgery in Zegnautus Keep, he thinks; waking up to the mounting agony of whatever new alterations had been carved into his flesh — that helpless moment of knowing the pain will only worsen.

He feels he had only endured yesterday by biding his time, clinging white-knuckled to the promise of nightfall. And now it's already over. The cycle has already restarted.

It hits the unit, then — the reality of having to endure another day of this. Another day of molten fire bubbling inside of him, of wishing he could lay his veins open and let the scourge spill out of him.

He burrows his head even farther into his arms, as if it might hold off the day for a few minutes longer. He wonders if this is all perhaps some kind of punishment for being insubordinate.

He didn't put on the commander's clothes right away when he was ordered to. Was that it?

He hadn't meant to hesitate. He just hadn't been certain he had understood correctly.

The world spins around him, even though he's laying still. The unit turns that last hour at the base over in his mind, replaying everything, wondering how things might have been different if he had just followed orders better. Maybe the commander wouldn't have left, and the unit wouldn't have been taken from the base.

He wants to return to the base. He wants to return to his chamber. He wants to do better. He —

There's the creak of a chair. The unit nearly starts; he'd been lost enough in his thoughts to be taken off guard.

Then he hears footsteps.

He's good at discerning footsteps, after a lifetime of using them to decipher who is approaching his chamber and what mood they're in. For a while now, he's heard only the commander's footsteps, brisk and heavy on the heel — sharper when he is displeased, resounding in echoing taps off the polished floor.

He's picked up already on the large one's heavy tread, and the lighter, subtly uneven stride of the one who disappeared. The steps he hears approaching now — crisp and precise — belong to the one with the glasses. But he's unable to glean his mood.

The unit stays perfectly still, and watches black boots step into view through one cracked-open eye.

The one with the glasses sighs, and a slender, gloved hand picks up the rations still sitting in front of the unit. The steps trail to the edge of the rock, and the unit hears the sound of the silver tool scraping against the plate.

The one with the glasses speaks so softly that the unit barely hears: "Perhaps the local fauna will find it to their taste...."

Then the one with the glasses heads toward the other side of the rock, by the station that he had brought the rations from last night.

The unit doesn't move. It's a bad thing to do, pretending not to be awake; guilt and apprehension wash through him in waves at the act of deceit. But the one with the glasses hasn't directed him to get up yet, and he doesn't want to do anything to inspire him to. He'll stay like this as long as he can, with only his hands and the back of his neck bearing the brunt of the sun.

He stays like that for quite a while. And then he hears the sound that the zip on the cloth contraption makes. There's a loud, exaggerated yawn. “Morning, Iggy.”

It's the large one. The unit bristles, from his spot hunkered on the rock. The large one puts him on edge. He hopes he won't start asking him more questions that he doesn't know the answer to.

"And the same to you," the one with the glasses says. "Did you rest well?"

"Always do," he says. "How was last watch?"

"Quiet," the one with the glasses says. Then he adds, after a moment of silence: "Our guest left his food untouched." There's a tone of irritation to his voice.

There's a longer period of silence.

Then the one with the glasses speaks quietly, saying something the unit can't hear.

He makes out pieces of the large one's response: "... you're not wrong ... something's definitely off about...."

The conversation continues, both of them saying more things that the unit doesn't hear.

"Breakfast first," says the one with the glasses, back to standard speaking volume. "I'm behind already."

"And I'm behind on my workout."

After that, the unit hears the one with the glasses creating noises at the station again. The large one begins making noises, too — repetitive grunts and breaths. It's the sound someone makes when they are performing drills.

That's good. As long as the large one keeps making noises, the unit can be sure that he will be preoccupied. That means he won't approach.

The knot in the unit's stomach eases a little, now that he has a way to keep tabs on the large one. It comes right back, though, as the smell of human rations drifts his way again.

It's different from last night. And somehow, it dethrones last night as the best thing he's ever smelled.

An ache forms under his tongue as his mouth starts producing saliva, his body under the impression that it will soon eat. His stomach twists hard, gurgles loudly despite him willing with everything he has for it to stay quiet. That deep-seated longing, combined with the pain from the sun, is a discomfort comparable to some of the worse tests he's been subject to.

He doesn't know how long it goes on like this, but after some time, the sounds at the station stop. The large one completes the drills, too; the unit hears him stand up.

"If you'd do the rousing," the one with the glasses says.

And then he hears the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. It's time, then. The unit's heart kicks up. He braces as the large one reaches him — and then he receives a light kick to his leg. "Hey, scrawny — time to face the music. Get up."

It's the gentlest he's ever been kicked. He's not sure why the large one was so gentle, but he obeys before he gives reason to receive a harder kick. 

He pretends to wake up from sleep, shifting his head and blinking his eyes. He treads a fine line as he pushes himself up — moving slowly enough that it doesn't seem like he was already awake, but quickly enough that he doesn't appear insubordinate.

He ends up not having to act much. His limbs don't cooperate, and a wave of vertigo socks through him as he rises, threatening to send him back down.

He makes it to a sitting position, facing away from the rising sun. He's now aware of the deep ache in his muscles. He wishes he could roll out his shoulders, like he sometimes gets to do when he's alone in his chamber.

When he looks up, he sees that the large one is scrutinizing him.

Dread creeps its way up his spine. Did they realize he had been pretending to sleep? He looks over to the station, at the one with the glasses — he's staring at the unit too, the same look on his face.

The one with the glasses furrows his brows, and he looks over toward the large one. The large one shows the palms of his hands: "Hey, I didn't lay a finger on him."

The one with the glasses looks back at the unit. "What happened to your face?" 

The question is the last one he was expecting. His...face? Of everything they've asked him, that has to be the most perplexing so far. 

With his rough, cracked voice, the unit forces out: "I don't know," and then immediately regrets his poor response. But the humans look at him for a moment longer, and then seem to accept the answer.

The one with the glasses looks back down at the station, and the large one disappears inside the cloth contraption. He returns a couple minutes later with the one who disappeared in tow.

The one who disappeared is acting even stranger than usual. He stumbles out of the cloth opening and falls into a chair with a groan, eyes closed and limbs splayed out with abandon.

A hot wire of anxiety sparks through the unit's chest. He's only ever seen such undisciplined posture in units that have been incapacitated, been knocked unconscious, or died. It's obvious something has happened to the one who disappeared, but the other humans haven't taken note. He's wondering if he should risk informing them of it —

— and then the one with the glasses walks over and sets a plate in the one who disappeared's lap.

It's like it brings him back to life. He lifts a limp arm to grab it, sitting up a little straighter and blinking open his eyes.

The unit looks away before he can be caught looking again, trying to quell the residual nerves from his sudden spike of panic. These humans are so different from any humans he's ever known, the unit thinks; they constantly perform actions he can't begin to understand.

The one with the glasses gives a plate to the large one next. Then he sets a plate down in front of the unit, as well, along with a vessel of water from the storage cube.

Just like last night, it looks like nothing he's ever seen.

It contains what appears to be three distinct categories of items: A stack of two large, flat triangles that look rough in texture; a mound of vibrant yellow, fluffy looking material with small black dots dusting the top; and three oily, curved, brown cylinders, comparable in size and shape to fingers.

The unit stares at the rations, bone-deep longing constricting his chest. He commands himself not to care. His still-uncorrected desire for human rations is just another flaw that makes him defective.

He looks to the water sitting next to the plate. They had permitted him to drink it yesterday. Perhaps he can drink it again? He's been given no instructions this time, but he's so thirsty.

He picks up the water vessel, and hazards a glance over to the humans to gauge if it's allowed. None of them look his way, all busy with sitting in their chairs and eating their rations.

The unit twists at the cap like he saw the large one do yesterday. It's an awkward motion with the way his wrists are tied, but the seal of the cap eventually gives with a crack, and then he has no trouble unscrewing it the rest of the way. He lifts it to his lips and takes a sip, still unsure if it's alright to do so. But nothing happens, and so he continues, until three fourths of the water is gone. 

He sets it back down, wondering if maybe he should finish it off now while he has the chance. But maybe, if they don't take it away, he could save it for later. It will get hotter and brighter as the day goes on. Having some water to ration throughout the day could help take his mind off his unsettled ichor and the smell of the rations.

"Hey, what happened to your face?"

The unit looks up to see the one who dissapeared staring, still looking half-incapacitated.

"I don't know," the unit says, again.

The one who disappeared looks to the large one.

"Didn't touch him," says the large one, again, without looking up from his plate.

The one with the glasses looks up, though. He looks down at the plate in front of the unit, and then says: "You really should eat."

There are no unit rations around for him to eat, unless he missed them. The unit looks down at his plate, then up again, paralyzed with uncertainty. Eating this can't possibly be what they mean.

The large one does look up, now. He leans forward in the chair, toward the unit, and he speaks with the low intonation of a threat. "Y'know, Iggy's real nice to even make a plate for you. You better not go wasting any more of our food."

That _is_ what they mean.

He's always, always been told that he is never to touch human rations. But now, apparently, he is. Except he didn't, and now he's wasted some.

His blood runs cold under the large one's glare. He's wasted unit rations before; there have been times when they came back up after he'd eaten them, or when he felt too unwell to eat them at all. The penalty for wastefulness is corporal punishment and a ban from having rations for the next two days. 

The unit's not sure what the punishment for wasting human rations is. But he's sure it has to be worse.

He stumbles for the eating tool, desperate not to disobey any more orders.

He tries to use the tool like he observed the humans doing the night before, though he can't pick it up exactly the same with both his hands tied. He doesn't even know where to start, but he knows he can't waste any more time.

He chooses the triangle. His trembling hand spears it with the tool, but it falls off and he has to stab it again. This time he angles the tool as he lifts it so that it will stay on, but it's still difficult to maneuver. He wonders if he was supposed to cut it first. He brings it to his mouth and bites off a small corner as a test.

The taste is... indescribable. The unit has absolutely no words for it, in disbelief that a flavor like this could even exist. It's warm — somehow crunchy on the outsides but more tender on the inside — and absolutely the best thing that he has ever eaten.

It's much less tough than unit rations — he chews only a few times and it's sufficiently broken down enough to swallow. And then he's taking another bite, and another, barely swallowing in between. It's so good that he swears the pain from the sun is a little less harsh, so good he almost forgets to worry about his punishment.

It's not long until the triangle is gone, and he's looking back down at the plate, unsure what to try next. Does every item taste the same, or are they all different? 

The triangle was difficult to wield, and he's not yet sure how to approach the yellow mound. He decides to try his luck with a tube. It spears much more easily than the triangle, and when he bites down, it compresses inward for a moment. Then it gives, and incredibly strong flavor bursts onto his tongue.

It's like the sharp, stinging flavor of blood or sweat — except, not like it at all. And the texture is bafflingly bouncy. It's nothing like the triangle. It's just as amazing.

Again, he's taking another bite before he's fully finished with the first. He's in disbelief. How could something like this ever exist? Do humans really eat this all the time?

The wonder doesn't last.

The unit is halfway through the second tube when he starts to feel strange. A sharp pain forms in his stomach, and grows. And it's like the rations have started morphing into something else, the flavor altering with every bite he takes — from pleasantly intense, to something more assaulting. He feels nausea creep up on him. Bit by bit, the rations become no longer appetizing.

By the time he's on the last bit of the tube, the unit has to force it down. He stares down at the rest of the rations, wondering how they had ever looked appealing. Now, just the smell is churning his stomach, making him feel dangerously queasy. Now, finishing it off feels like an insurmountable task.

He looks over toward the humans. They're all paying him little mind, making their way through the rations with no trouble at all. The unit's body must not be meant to process it, then.

The unit understands now, with a pang of disappointment too fierce to be justifiable, why he isn't allowed human rations. He understands the extent of his defect — the full irrationality of desiring things that are meant for people.

But he was told not to waste the rations. He has to continue. He's been ordered to.

He spears the last tube. He just needs to get it down, and then he can go for the last triangle — he'll figure out the mound when he gets to it.

The greasy, textured surface glistens so off-puttingly now that the unit wonders how it had ever seemed appealing. He doesn't breathe as he takes a bite, trying not to taste the material as he gags his way through chewing it.

Swallowing takes a few tries. His stomach clenches, hard, trying to stop him from giving it something it's realized it's not supposed to have.

It's too late, when he realizes he's going to vomit. He's fought this battle enough times that he knows the point where he's going to lose, no matter how hard he tries not to. No matter how much he knows he'll suffer afterward.

If he can't control his body, he can at least stop himself from dirtying human quarters — he can salvage that much. And so he leans over toward the edge of the rock, and he retches — purging everything he's just eaten.

Wasting it.

It all spills down the stone, black with scourge, remnants bittering his mouth.

There's the sound of a chair knocking over. "Uh — _whoa_ ," says the one who disappeared, at the same time the large one says, " _What the hell?_ "

The unit chances a look up, feeling like there's an enormous weight on his chest. The humans are all standing out of their chairs, blurry figures staring down as the miasma bubbles and dissolves away under the power of the sun, until all that's left is the organic matter.

And then they're staring at the unit. 

He tries to lean back up, shivering in the searing heat. His stomach turns over anew, but for a different reason this time.

It was a test. He was told explicitly not to waste their rations, and then he wasted them. Twice now.

The mixture of nausea and terror overwhelms him with dizziness, his ear throbbing with new vigor. Everything spins and lurches around him, and before he knows it he's pitching forward, nearly tumbling down the side of the rock himself.

But before he goes, something grabs him by the shoulder — yanks him back up to sitting.

He feels so ill. The one with the glasses speaks nearby him, a strange tone to his voice. "What was that?"

The unit can't place it, can't tell whether the human truly sounds different or if the unit is just disoriented.

He looks up and blinks, blurred vision settling on the one with the glasses. Intent green eyes are boring into him, hand clenched hard on his shoulder, and the unit gazes down in shame. "I vomited," he answers.

"Clearly," the one with the glasses says. "But I'm rather more concerned with the contents of the vomit."

He hates when he has to do this, when he's ordered to state out loud what mistakes he's made. It makes them that much more humiliating.

He stares hard at the disorienting glow of the symbols, white again in the early light. Distantly, he can feel that vomiting has ever so slightly quieted the protest of the scourge in his veins — not that it was worth the cost.

"Your rations. I wasted them," The unit says. He waits for the next part, the part where the one with the glasses asks him to state what punishment he thinks he deserves, even though they both know already.

"No. Not the food—" he says, instead. "—the black material that bubbled away. What was that?"

It's an odd question. The black is the scourge, of course. He doesn't know why he's concerned about that, rather than the rations. But he doesn't want to get in further trouble for not answering again.

The unit glances back up, at the one with the glasses, kneeling beside him. The large one and the one who disappeared remain in his periphery.

"It's the scourge," he says, even though that's obvious.

There's a beat of silence. And from the one with the glasses comes a strange-sounding intake of breath — and then the hand on his shoulder is gone, snatched away like it's been burned.

The one with the glasses backs away, a look on his face the unit recognizes as apprehension. "...You mean, the starscourge?" he asks. "You've contracted the vanishing disease?"

"Whoa," says the one who disappeared as he takes a stiff step back, knocking into the chair behind him. "Are you, like, infected?"

"No way. Hasn't been a case of that in centuries," the large one says, posture defensive as he steps in front of the one who disappeared. "Isn't it contagious, Iggy?"

"I don't have a disease," the unit says, confused. He's never had a disease. He's had regular immunizations since he was created.

"Then why the hell are you vomiting up scourge?" the one who disappeared asks.

They're acting like they don't know all of this already. He doesn't know how that could be possible.

"...It's from the treatments," he says. "Some of the scourge leaks out into the digestive tract after infusion." He leaves out the part where because he is defective, his is especially bad. Normal units wouldn't still have scourge leakage three days after an infusion.

“Infusion? You're putting that stuff in you willingly?" the large one says. "What are you Niffs, crazy?"

He doesn't know what to say to that. He hardly believes that after having just thrown up their rations, he's answering questions about basic unit maintenance.

The one who disappeared steps out from behind the large one.

"That explains — last night, across the fire," he says, eyes locked on the unit. "I... I thought it was just the flames playing tricks on me. But I looked up and... I  _swear_  his eyes were glinting red."

"Yes," the unit says, confirming. "Red-pupil effect is a side effect of the scourge treatment." His are far less pronounced than a functional unit's, though.

No one says anything after that.

No one responds at all for a long while, before the one with the glasses speaks. “This is quite a lot to process.... But perhaps we should have asked this much sooner," he says.

"Would it be correct to assume that you are not, in fact, Commander Carnifex?"

He... what?

"I'm not the commander," the unit says. Of course he's not the commander. He's a defective unit. Why would they ever think he's the commander? 

Why are they asking such strange questions, when they should be punishing him for wasting rations?

"Shit," says the large one.

"Indeed," says the one with the glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompto, who has never been acquainted with exotic flavors like "salty": tastes like sweat?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, a couple months ago: This next chapter will come out faster!
> 
> Life: Ha... hahahaha
> 
> Anyway, enjoy some more poor Prompto.

The unit isn't sure what's coming next. The moments tick by, in excruciating slow motion, as the humans just stare at him. It seems unreal. It _can't_ be real, but... they appear to have believed he was the commander.

There are many things that the unit doesn't understand — a shameful aspect of his poor intelligence rating — but never before has he failed so terribly to make sense of something.

He remembers vaguely, right before they had left the base, that the one who disappeared had said the word "commander" to him. But he'd been so confused and disoriented, and then he was being shoved into the vehicle and restrained — he hadn't spent time considering what it had meant. He would never have considered that they thought he was a commander, not anymore than he would have considered they thought he was a rat. It's a scenario too implausible to have ever crossed his mind.

But somehow, they did. The unit had already thought the humans were strange. Now, though, he realizes he hasn't even scratched the surface.

If they believed he was a commander, why did they take command over him? Are they higher in command than a commander? And how will they treat him, now that they realize he's not a commander? Is that why he hadn't received punishment yet? Is that why they had destroyed all the other units, and not him?

The questions rush through his head, each one worrying him more than the last. He doesn't want to know the answers. He wants to evaporate like the scourge — to fade away from this moment before it meets its conclusion.

But then the one who disappeared speaks, and time stutters forward.

"So, what —" he starts, tossing his hands in the air. He looks irritated. "You're just wearing a commander's uniform for fun?"

He's not sure whether he should answer yes or no to the question; he's not familiar with the word _fun_. But he needs to respond. He gives himself a quick moment to consider, and then settles for the direct explanation. "The commander directed me to put it on."

"Why?" is the instant response.

The unit doesn't know _why_. He's never considered _why_ — it doesn't matter _why_. All that matters is that when he is given orders, he follows them. "He directed me to put on the uniform," the unit repeats.

"Was the commander there with you?" cuts in the one with the glasses.

"Yes," he says, glad for a straightforward question. "Until you came. Then he left."

The one with the glasses lets out a short breath; the one who disappeared groans, sliding a hand over his face. 

The large one smacks a fist into his own leg. The unit suppresses his flinch. "That fucker who shot at us. I just thought he was an underling — I —" the large one snarls, rising up out of his chair.

The unit's answer has made him angry. Every inch of him conveys it, his face pinched tight, teeth showing, and his thick hands balled into fists. The unit feels that familiar flash of cold dread, his chest squeezing in as if it's already being stomped on. The large one paces away, and his heavy, booted foot kicks over the box that holds water vessels. "Gods-fucking-dammit," he growls.

The unit schools his expression into indifference and looks away, knowing not to stare. Staring just makes them angrier, and draws their attention back to him. But the large one doesn't stay put. He stomps nearer. 

The unit doesn't hear the heavy footsteps so much as feel them, deep in his bones. He braces, ready for the boot to find his ribs next — feels the phantom pain of it in anticipation —

But the large one passes behind the unit, and then turns, pacing back the other way again.

The one who disappeared kicks the ground and falls back in his chair, crossing his arms. "I should have kept after him," he says, looking off into the distance. He's angry, too.

The one with the glasses bows his head. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't seem angry; he seems fatigued. "Can we be certain he's telling the truth?"

There's a moment of pregnant silence, before the one who disappeared mumbles: "He tried to eat a slice of toast with a fork."

The one with the glasses drops his head lower with a heaving sigh. "Good heavens."

The large one adds, from somewhere behind the unit: "He's not like any empire higher up we've seen. Not by a long shot."

"He's a puppet," says the one who disappeared. "He knows _nothing_. Nobody can act that well, and, like — what kind of strategy would that even be?"

The large one growls again. "They threw a lackey under the bus, and we fell for it."

"Let's... not fall prey to assumptions again," says the one with the glasses. He looks back up at the unit. He changes his tired expression back into the focused one that the unit is more familiar with. "I want to make certain we are clear. The man who was in the room with you when we arrived — the man who shot at us. Was that Commander Carnifex?"

"Yes," the unit says.

"Do you know where he went?"

"No," the unit says.

"Do you know why he left?"

"No," he says, but —

But, he might.

The one with the glasses must see his hesitation. "Are you certain?" he asks.

The unit's voice loses some of its strength as he speaks again — another defect. "I didn't put on his uniform right away. I was insubordinate." He feels his shoulders hunch in, even as he knows he needs to reestablish proper posture. "I didn't understand the order, initially. I didn't intend to disregard it."

There's silence.

"And you think that is why he left?" the one with the glasses says.

"It's a possible reason," the unit says. 

The one with the glasses' brows smooth out. "Certainly not," he says, and his voice has quieted to a degree, taking on a new tone. "Had he spoken of any plans?"

The unit looks at him, wishing he could give a satisfactory answer.

The large one comes his way again, towering over. "Was he deserting? Trying to sneak away?"

"Don't lead him," says the one with the glasses. He repeats: "Had he told you of any plans?"

"I don't know. I — he told me to put on the uniform. I don't...." All words leave his mind. He doesn't know. His breaths have become increasingly fast and shallow through the course of the questioning, one of his more profound defects, and it's begun to make his head fuzzy.

"It's alright," the one with the glasses says. "How about this — can you just explain everything that happened before the commander left?"

He can. It's all fresh in his mind, after he spent the entire morning poring over it.

"I was in my chamber," the unit says, and already runs out of air. He tries to take a couple deeper breaths without being obvious, but it _must_ be obvious. The one with the glasses just waits for him to continue. "And then the alarms were activated," he continues, pulling in another breath. "The commander told me to follow him. He told me to put on his uniform, and then he put things into a bag. And then..."

The unit remembers the fear of the next moment, and the distant resignation that followed.

"And then?" The one with the glasses prompts, gaze intent.

"He was going to shoot me," the unit says. Then he corrects himself. "I thought he was going to shoot me. But he didn't. You came in, and he shot at you instead. And then he left."

The one with the glasses turns his head toward the others. They all exchange glances.

"Trying to fake his death." The large one says. "Damn coward."

"We might have walked into a much different scene," the one with the glasses says. "And given the right mess we've made of the last two days, it seems we'd have fallen for it as well."

There's a moment where they continue exchanging glances. And then the one who disappeared sits forward in his chair, looking back toward the unit. "Well... who the hell are  _you_ , then?"

He's never heard someone ask for his designation in that manner — but these humans have a strange way of saying things. That must be what they're asking.

"My designation is Unit 0006-0204."

They stare. "Uhh, what?" says the one who disappeared.

He repeats himself. "Unit 0006-0204."

The large one speaks. "No, no, not what  _unit_  you're in — what's your name?"

"I'm not in a unit. I  _am_  a unit," he says. "My designation is unit 0006-0204."

"That's your  _name_?"

"No, it's my designation." he says.

The large one narrows his eyes. "You—" he shakes his head a little, as if he's shaking something off. "Are you fucking with me, here? What do you mean, you're a unit? What is your  _name_? Y'know, the thing you were given when you were born?"

"I don't have a name," he says, hoping not to make the large one angry while still answering accurately. "I'm a magitek unit."

"No, you're not," the large one says. His eyes appear so resolute, so unyielding in his answer. 

_Oh._

They didn't realize he's a unit.

The unit's heart sinks. They'd just gotten through the commander conversation, and now it's about to start all over again. He thought that after they discovered he wasn't the commander, surely they _must_ have realized he was a unit. But somehow, they didn't. And the large one is even disputing it.

He doesn't know what else to say. To contradict or correct a human is insubordination. It's usually easy not to do, since humans know better than units. But these humans somehow don't understand his proper rank. He's obligated to inform them.

But he doesn't want to be insubordinate. He already knows that after all this, he's surely going to earn a degree one punishment. "...I'm a magitek unit," he repeats, helplessly, all the strength gone from his raw throat. 

The large one keeps looking at him, for what seems like forever. Until, in time, the glint in his eyes dulls a fraction. "... Yeah, we know MT's, kid," he says. "Taken down hundreds of 'em. You don't look like one we've ever seen."

"I'm defective," the unit replies, quietly. "I don't respond properly to the treatments. My body remains fully corporeal."

He feels the shame settle heavy on his chest, just as intensely as it had two years ago. The memory still burns bright and sharp: lying strapped to a metal table after hours of testing, burning with shame as the scientists overhead officially labeled him _defective_. He'd been lucky that he had skill with machinery, and that he was still capable of following orders. It's what got him reassigned, rather than retired.

"I don't believe this shit," The big one says, looking away. He crosses his arms, glaring at the skyline.

They think he's lying. Lying is — he'll be punished severely for lying. The last time he'd done so was many, many years ago, when he hadn't yet learned its futility. He _did_ learn, soon after, and his body still remembers that particular lesson. They have to understand that he is not lying.

"Here is my identification," the unit says eagerly, jerking up his hands. But the identification is obscured, hidden beneath the rope that binds him.

The one with the glasses looks at them for a moment, then reaches out for the rope. He unties it, almost carefully, and the unit keeps his hands upheld after it is removed.

"On the wright wrist," the unit says, after a moment of silence in which it occurs to him that they may not know where his identification is. The one with the glasses nods, pulling up the uniform sleeve with a careful thumb and forefinger. 

Three sets of eyes peer forward.

"I had believed that was strange," says the one with the glasses, staring down at the black lines that mark his identification.

"That's not a security key," says the large one. "It's a fucking cattle brand."

The one who disappeared is no longer in his chair — suddenly, he's near the unit, grabbing his hand and pulling it toward him. He brings his face up close, squinting at the code so hard that the unit wonders if his vision is defective.

"Noct... perhaps you shouldn't touch him," the one with the glasses says. "We don't know what could —"

"That can't be right," the one who disappeared says. "You're human." He looks up at him, meets his eyes, and he's glaring. "MT's are robots. They're empty. There's nothing inside — I've _seen_ it."

"I'm not human," the unit says. And he hesitantly explains what the human surely should know: "Units start as corporeal. They transition to the metal casing as the treatment transmutes their physical form into miasmic energy."

That is, except for this unit. No matter what the researchers tried in order to fix him, his body won't accept the scourge. It would all eventually flush out of his system if he discontinued the treatments. That's why he's defective — why he was removed from the infantry, and instead assigned to a base to follow personal orders for the commander.

The humans hadn't known this. They had somehow mistaken him for a human. And now they realize he's a failed unit. This is where the patience will stop, then. This is where the punishment comes.

"It seems we may have gotten off on quite the wrong foot," the one with the glasses says. "We've a lot to sort out. I... suppose we should begin with a curative. Perhaps it could clear out the... _treatment_. If you would, Noct?"

"Sure," the one who disappeared says, the anger gone out of his eyes, voice flat. He lifts up his hand, and in a glimmering flash, something materializes into it.

The unit stares, transfixed. Not only can he disappear and reappear — he can make objects do it, too.

The materialized object is another strange vessel filled with liquid, except this vessel is pointed on one end and looks like it's made of glass and metal. And the liquid is a bright, glowing blue, like the symbols on the rock.

He holds it out toward the unit. The unit cautiously lifts his hand, hesitating a moment to be sure the human wants him to take it. The one who disappeared nods, holding it out further, and the unit gingerly plucks the vessel from him.

He looks at it, feeling the cold ridges of the glass against his fingers, the word 'potion' engraved across metal top. It has a cap, similar to the plastic water vessel, and the unit hesitantly reaches for the lid.

He looks up, searching for confirmation he's performing the correct action.

"You can drink it," the one who disappeared says.

The unit unscrews the lid and stares at the glowing liquid. His stomach protests the idea of consuming anything else right now. But he lifts it to his lips anyway. He tips the vessel back.

The liquid passes his lips, and the sensation is completely unlike water. It flows strangely, light and airy, becoming thinner and thinner as it drifts down his throat. He doesn't even need to swallow — it disappears before it makes it all the way down. All that remains is a strange, low  _tingling_ , spreading from where the liquid vanished. It's unsettling, but he tips the vessel back and lets the rest slide down.

He draws the empty vessel away from his mouth. The tingling grows stronger, spreading throughout him. It begins to feel... unpleasant. Almost like an internal itch. The ichor that's been scratching restlessly at his veins seems to kick up its rebellion. He grips the vessel and tries not to grimace, but it's growing stronger, and stronger, until the discomfort turns into pain, and then —

He's on fire. The ichor tears through the whole of him, now, screaming. White hot. The world disappears around him, and the pain is all that there is. It's all that _he_ is. He knows nothing but the chanted plea in his head for it to stop — _make it all_ _stop_.

He doesn't know how long it lasts. But eventually, the scourge settles. When the world returns, he's on the ground. He can feel the stone, cold and hard against his side. He can feel the tears running down his face. He can't stop shaking. Remnants of pain still shiver through him, like aftershocks of a bad memory. 

He's been humbled, not for the first time in his existence — reminded of true agony. What he thought he'd suffered through yesterday was nothing.

Over the sound of his thudding heart, he hears voices.

He realizes his eyes are squeezed shut. He opens them to see the one with the glasses leaning over him.

He suddenly wishes he was dehydrated like he was yesterday. If he had been, then the tears wouldn't have come. They're one more addition to a dozen things he's done wrong today, and he'll pay dearly for them all. It dawns on the unit, distantly, that the coming punishment will likely be the worst he's ever had.

"Are you alright?" the one with the glasses says. The unit hears him this time, clearly — clearer than he's heard anything in days: " _Say something._ "

Hoping for the thousandth time that he's giving the correct answer to a strange question, the unit replies "I'm functional —"

And the words slip out with ease, smooth and painless.

His throat doesn't hurt anymore, he realizes. Neither does his ear, and he no longer feels the stinging lash lines set into his face by the symbols. The light still burns his body, but it's a new, fresh pain — the tender rawness left over from yesterday is gone.

He blinks up at the one with the glasses, confused.

"Okay. Again. What the hell was that?" says the one who disappeared. The unit looks over to see he's kneeled down next to the unit, too. So is the large one.

"I don't know," the unit says.

"Whatever occurred, it appears to be over now," says the one with the glasses. "Can you sit up?"

The humans back away a little, and he slowly pushes himself up with still-wobbly arms. It's easier to stay upright. It's easier to think.

The one with the glasses asks: "How do you feel?"

He's still dizzy, but many other things are better. "My injuries have rapidly improved," he says.

"Yes," the one with the glasses says, "that's what a potion is supposed to do. What it's _not_ supposed to do is send you to the ground screaming in agony."

He'd screamed? He hadn't meant to. He wasn't _supposed_ to.

He inclines his head, an admission of fault. He waits for consternation, for someone to _finally_ make mention of his punishment — he thinks he'd like to get it over with, now.

"I mean, if he's really got scourge in him... maybe it doesn't react well to curatives," says the large one.

The way he says it makes it sound as if they hadn't known what effect the potion would have. It's not surprising to the unit anymore. There are a lot of things the humans don't seem to know, even though humans are supposed to know everything.

"Is that what happened? The scourge had a reaction?" The one with the glasses asks.

"Yes," the unit says. Of course that's what it was. The ichor has reverted to its restless grumbling, now, though further quieted — the _potion_ seems to have flushed even more of it from his system. He'll need an extensive treatment to restore it to normal levels.

"My apologies," says the one with the glasses. "I didn't know that would happen. This is rather new territory."

The unit doesn't understand what he means by an apology. Who is he apologizing to?

He feels like he floats through the next few minutes. The humans keep talking to him, but punishment isn't mentioned. Only further questions about his physical state — strange ones, not like what the researchers would ask: what does the scourge feel like, and what are his current physical symptoms, and what, exactly, does he mean by feeling dizzy?

Eventually they must get their fill of the questions, because the one with the glasses changes subjects. "Obviously our last attempt was a failure, but he needs sustenance of _some_ sort."

"How 'bout old faithful?" says the large one. "Cup Noodles never failed a dodgy stomach."

The one with the glasses looks up as if considering something. "Perhaps," he says, and then stands up and heads over to the station.

A chirping alarm sounds, and the large one pulls something out of his pocket. "Iris. Gotta take this," he says, and then steps away, off the flat stone.

He's left alone with the one who disappeared. He stays kneeled there for a moment, looking off toward the ground, and then he pushes himself up stiffly, dusting his pants off and flopping into the nearest chair. He keeps taking a breath, like he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

The unit was certain they would have initiated his punishment by now, especially after they learned he's a magitek unit and not a commander, but nothing has happened yet. It doesn't make sense.

The unit sits there, still reeling from everything that's happened in such a short span of time. It's quiet for a while, until it's not.

"How old are you, anyway?"

The unit looks over to see the one who disappeared looking at him.

"My commission date was 20 years ago," he says.

The one who disappeared hums. "Me too." Then he says, "Not my commission date. Like, when I was born."

The one who disappeared looks like he's waiting for a response, but the unit is unsure what feedback to give. He settles for a curt nod.

The one who disappeared taps the fingers of his right hand on his knee. "...So, in Niflheim...." he starts. "What's life like?"

The unit looks at him. Is that the end of his question? It seems unfinished.

"Like, what do you do?" the one who disappeared continues.

"I follow orders," the unit says.

"That's it?"

"Yes," the unit says. He does many things, but they all fall under the realm of orders.

"Do you... _like_ following orders?"

It's another strange question. He's never considered having an opinion on orders. They're orders. Some orders are unpleasant, but it's more the action that can be unpleasant than the order itself. In terms of actual orders... they're good, because they let him know what he's supposed to do. In that case, he supposes he likes orders.

"Yes," he says.

"But... so, the Empire," the one who disappeared starts. "How do you feel about what they're doing?"

Again, he doesn't know what that means, or why the one who disappeared is so concerned with how he feels.

The one who disappeared takes his hand from his knee. He sits forward, staring at the unit. "Do you care that they're murdering innocent people? Destroying whole cities? Did you sign up to do this to yourself, or did they force you?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. Magitek units follow orders. It's how it is. He doesn't understand "I... I don't..."

"Fewer questions, Noct," says the one with the glasses, having returned from the station. "He's clearly not of mind to answer them."

The one who disappeared breaks eye contact with the unit. He sits back in his chair again, crossing his arms.

The one with the glasses holds out something to the unit: a foam vessel with a flat, open top and a tool sticking out of it. Inside it is liquid, like water, except it is yellow and has a rich smell. Other things float inside it — long, curling strings, and small green and orange shapes.

They're giving him more rations? Why are they giving more, when he's already wasted them twice? According to protocol, he shouldn't be allowed any rations at all for the next two days at _least_.

And he won't be able to keep this down either, if it is meant for humans. It's useless — why don't they punish him and get it over with? 

But then a cold claw of terror rips through him, as he stares down into the rations. These humans do everything differently... why wouldn't their punishments be different as well? Perhaps this _is_ his punishment — being ordered to eat more rations so that he lives his mistake over and over. When he inevitably wastes them, he'll be ordered to eat more, his insubordinance building until he's either able to keep it down, or he earns a worse punishment. Or retirement.

"Take it," the one with the glasses urges, seemingly unaware of the unit's mental spiral. Numbly, the unit takes the vessel. It warms his hands. "It will hopefully be easier on your stomach. Sip it slowly."

The one who disappeared adds, from back in his chair: "Doesn't have all the bells and whistles, but maybe it won't make you throw up daemon guts."

The unit doesn't mind that it doesn't contain bells and whistles. He thinks they would only be an impediment to completing the order.

The unit stares at the vessel, incrementally lifting it to his mouth. He's knows he's hungry, but his stomach is upset from the last rations, and he's half afraid this will blind him with pain like the _potion_ did. But he takes a first sip it anyway, careful and slow.

Like all the other rations, it tastes unlike anything he's ever tasted. It contains sharp, rich notes similar to the cylinders, but the richness is not as intense. It's good, right now. He sips again, and waits for the rations to change, for the flavor to slowly distort on his tongue until it leaves him retching.

He keeps waiting. But the terrible transformation never comes. Instead, something like relief washes over him, his stomach starting to settle for the first time in days. It's like an inverse of the previous rations, slowly getting better as he drinks instead of worse.

His sips become deeper, until the bottom of the cup tips higher and higher — and then, before he realizes, the liquid is gone.

He brings the vessel back down. He looks at the bottom of the cup, and the curly pale strings, coiled heavy on top of each other now that they're no longer floating. He wonders if he should try eating them, too, or if he would be testing his luck.

But he's been ordered. So he takes the tool and spears the strings. Some of the strands tangle in its prongs, and they unravel and stretch out to their full lengths as he lifts them up. They're longer than he thought — too long to fit into his mouth, so he has to bite them off and let the extra fall back into the cup. The strings taste the same as the liquid, and are incredibly soft. He hardly has to chew them.

It was easy. And it's easy to take the next bite, and the next. It continues to be easy, until it's gone. And it stays down.

When he finishes, the one with the glasses is there almost immediately to take the vessel.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks.

"Yes," the unit says. He _is_ feeling better.

"Less dizzy?"

The unit looks up to the one with the glasses. His vision only barely swims, now. "Yes."

He feels better than he has in the past two days. It's as if his thoughts have centered, and the pain isn't consuming his thoughts — it has become something he can focus past. He realizes he hasn't been thinking very clearly.

What rank are these humans? They're certainly not researchers, but they also don't look or act like any officers he's ever seen. And they don't know things that an officer certainly would know. They could be _civilians_ , but the unit wouldn't know how to tell — he's never seen them before. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do with civilians. His only directive is not to harm them.

He needs to know their rank. Maybe that would help him understand why the humans are acting the way they do. But at the same time, he can't ask a question out of turn. He doesn't know how he's going to find it out.

The unit is torn from his thoughts by the sound of the large one's footsteps. He has returned to the rock.

"Gladio," the one with the glasses acknowledges. "I take it your sister wasn't calling just to catch up?"

 "Yeah," the large one says. "Hate to pack up our camping trip early, but it looks like we need to head to Lestallum."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....Surprise, bitch. Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.

Dark clouds creep nearer on the horizon, hanging heavy with the promise of rain.

They've been rolling steadily forward as the group unmakes their camp, as if ushering them on their way. As if they know Noctis wants to drag his feet for what comes next.

Lestallum. Noise, bustle, crowds.

Not like he'd usually complain. A real bed's a good change of pace when you spend weeks at a time roughing it in sleeping bags or pretzeled up on camper loveseats. And the water pressure at the Leville feels more luxurious these days than even the most overly-opulent indulgences of his princely upbringing.

But they've got a snag this time — in the form of one Niff, sitting calm and stoic as ever at the edge of camp like all the drama of this morning never happened.

It's... weird. When they first captured him, he was sure he had this guy pegged. Niffs are Niffs, after all. Greedy, cruel, tyrannical egotists, all of them.

And then the next 48 hours happened, and he had to go and make things weird by revealing himself to be none of those things. Just a shell of a person — confused, sickly and submissive to a fault.

Noctis had thought the guy was playing some sort of trick at first, but now he's taking him at face value. Now, every time he glances at him, studies his pale hair and paler face, he doesn't feel the same bitter animosity. Instead, it's a strange, confused tug of... something else.

He's not sure if he'd call it pity.

Gladio's halfway through breaking down the tent as Ignis packs away the cooking station, and Noctis is still rummaging dumbly through his disastrous duffle bag, looking for an extra set of clothes and trying not to think too hard about the conversation he'd just had.

 _"You're good at following orders, right?"_ he had asked.

The Niff had nodded immediately. _"Yes. It is my primary directive."_

_"We have to go somewhere. You have to come with us. Will you do exactly as we say?"_

_"Yes,"_ he'd said, back ramrod straight, perfectly obedient, even though he looked like he could keel over at any moment. _"I will obey every command."_

He'd been so eager, a demented sort of look in his red-rimmed eyes. A perverse, desperate sort of hope. Like Noctis was throwing him a life raft in the form of orders to follow.

And it's not like Noctis _trusts_ him, but that look spoke the truth; they've been nothing more than hostile strangers holding this guy hostage, but he'd swan dive off Taelpar Crag if one of them told him to.

Just like how he'd apparently stand there and let a guy shoot him, point blank, if he was ordered to.

Noctis doesn't think he wants to know what it took to cultivate such mindless obedience.

Still, he absolutely doesn't trust the guy. And therein lies the problem with this little trip — he at _worst_ still poses a threat to them and at _best_ has no idea how to act like a regular, inconspicuous citizen. Which is a bigger problem the more eyes that are on them.

Hopefully, when they have this rendezvous with Monica they can figure out what the hell they're going to do with him.

Noctis finally pulls out his only clean white shirt to go with the jeans. He stands up and cracks his back, turning around to where their guest is sat crosslegged on the haven.

He couldn't be more obviously a Niff. In his current state, he'd be drawing curious eyes at the very least, and Gods forbid some random Imperial happened to be patrolling and recognized one of their own.

"Here." He holds out the clothes bundle, and the Niff takes it after a moment of what looks like careful consideration. "Put these on."

The Niff stands, with only a minor sway in his step. He sets the jeans down for a moment and starts to put the shirt on without first taking off his thick black undersuit.

"Wait—" Noctis interrupts, and the Niff freezes like time has stopped, one arm through the shirt. "....Uh. You have to take your other clothes off, first."

The Niff nods. He sets the shirt back down with the jeans. He takes off his greaves, first, and then comes the undershirt, and the boots and the pants and — whoa, OK, that's _everything_ — all at once.

Noctis turns away, face on fire as he tries to offer some privacy, even though the guy obviously isn't too concerned with it. He crosses his arms awkwardly, glancing over enough to keep an eye on him in his blurred periphery. The Niff thankfully puts the jeans on first, and Noctis turns back around once things are no longer x-rated.

Still, it's not like he's looking, really.

But then he does.

 _Look_ , that is.

And...

"Whoa," he mutters to himself.

The guy hadn't been kidding. That's a genuine disc of metal set into the right side of his chest, level with his sternum.

Noctis doesn't have much knowledge of modifications of that type, but it looks like a hack job. Like someone gouged out enough flesh to make room and shoved the thing in place, stitching the meat back shut around it like an afterthought. The scarring is thick, jagged and uneven, indented into the skin in some places and raised in others.

There's a thick line of tubing or something underneath the skin, too large and obvious for a natural vein. It runs upward from the metal thing, dipping over his collarbone before disappearing further into his body. There are other scars, too, slashed across his wiry, too-thin frame. Ones that look like they had to be painful.

Noctis has scars. They're not pretty, either. but they don't look like _that_ — like they were left to heal haphazardly on their own.

The sight only lasts for a few seconds. Then the Niff is shoving his scarred arms through the armholes of his shirt and pulling it on, and the horror show etched across his torso is hidden away like it was never there.

Finished, the Niff stands at attention. He's about the same height as Noctis, but the shirt still hangs off him a bit. The jeans are a bit baggy, too, his bare feet poking out from under the bunched hems.

Oh, right. Shoes. He'll need those. The shiny imperial boots piled with the rest of the Niff's old outfit are a no go.

Noctis delves back into his bag, disorganizing it further to pull out his sneakers. He grabs a pair of socks too, since it turns out the guy hadn't been wearing any.

Because that's probably what happens when someone's in a rush to dress you up in their clothes so they can kill you in them. When you're apparently so mindless that you'll just... let them do it. When you let them just use you as they see fit, let them turn you into a _machine_ for their army —

You forget the socks.

"These, too," Noctis gripes.

The Niff puts on the socks and shoes, making quick, efficient work of them like everything else. Noctis breathes a sigh of relief that he knows how to tie his laces. He's not taking any common knowledge for granted with this guy.

"We should cover that," Ignis says as he carries two armfuls of camping chairs past, pointing down at the... 'ID code' on the Niff's wrist.

That's a good idea. It's not like weird tattoos are a rare sight, but so many things are off about this guy already — the hair, the complexion, the general aura — that they don't need to draw any more attention.

"Hold on," Noctis says, dipping down into his bag once more.

He comes back with his casual jacket. Silky, lightweight material with a Behemoth embroidered on the back.

The Niff takes the jacket. He goes to put it on, but then he pauses, fingers clutched in the fabric. He looks like he's short-circuited.

Noctis waits for an indication of what's wrong, but none comes. "Uh, not your style or something? What's the issue?"

"...Do I remove the other clothes first?"

"Oh," Noctis says. Given Noctis' instructions from earlier, the logic almost makes sense — if it were your first ever day as a human being on Eos. "No, no, put it on over the shirt."

The Niff puts on the jacket, the long sleeves covering the ugly mark on his wrist. Noctis is glad not to see it anymore.

His hair's a bit messy. The limp strands look like they've probably been growing out from a buzzcut he got a few months back, flopping down over his forehead but not quite long enough to get in his eyes. He could do with a wash — they all could, honestly — but there are no showers around. So he tops him off with the next best thing — his ball cap.

Noctis does the honors, mostly because he knows how to sense a pattern and he really doesn't want to live through the pain of directing a full-grown man on how to put on a fucking hat.

The Niff stands mannequin-still as Noctis brushes his hair out of his face and adjusts the cap snugly over his head. Noctis steps back when he's done, crossing an arm over his chest, his other hand rubbing his chin as he examines his work. He tries to pretend it's his first time ever seeing the guy.

He still doesn't seem that normal, but that's probably because Noctis already knows how weird he is. He's probably overthinking the whole thing.

"You just about done playing dress up?" a gravelly voice asks.

Noctis turns around to see Gladio, eyebrow raised as he stands on a barren haven. Ignis is down by the car in the distance, loading the last of their stuff into the trunk. In the time it took him to fuss over the Niff's outfit, the whole camp's been cleared out.

"What do you think? Noctis asks, nodding toward the guy currently wearing half his wardrobe. "Would you look twice on the street?"

Gladio hums and shifts his weight, tilting his head critically. "At the look, no. At the body language? That's a different story."

Noctis sighs. The guy's standing so straight, hands stiff at his sides. It does look out of place. Kind of reminds Noctis of the plainclothes Crownsguard detail that used to not-so-subtly trail him around Insomnia.

"Can you change your posture a bit?" he asks.

The Niff blinks at him.

“Y'know," Noctis says. "Just look less like a soldier."

“I am a soldier,” the Niff says, brows furrowing minutely.

“Dude. Not right now, you aren't. You'll stick out like a sore thumb.” Noctis can practically see the big question mark over the Niff's head — which, Noctis is coming to realize, means he understood exactly none of what was just said.

He's like an alien. Noctis can't believe the three of them took a whole day to suss him out.

"Here. Try to be more relaxed," Noctis says, modeling a casual stance. "Like this."

The Niff looks him up and down for a few long moments, scrutinizing him like he's a differential equation.

Then he leans his upper torso so far backward that he looks like he might fall on his ass, arms relaxing from his sides to hang behind him.

Gladio barks out a loud, grating laugh.

"That's _not_ how I stand," Noctis grumbles. His arms come up to cross over his chest. The Niff crosses his arms, too.

Gladio guffaws again. "Looks pretty accurate to me."

Noctis rolls his eyes, pointedly ignoring the way the Niff tilts his head to the side the same way Noctis does. _He's not mocking me,_ he reminds himself. _He wouldn't even know how to._ Hell, he's pretty sure the guy doesn't even understand that he's a prisoner of war.

If he even _is_ anymore. Everything's kind of a grey area right now.

"Maybe try putting your hands in your pockets?" Noctis suggests. And... that's even worse. "OK, nevermind, don't do that." Noctis sighs again. This isn't really getting anywhere. "OK, so just... how you normally stand, and how you copied me that first time — somewhere in between those two, yeah?"

The Niff readjusts, and then suddenly he's at something approaching normal. A random guy on the street, maybe. Actually kind of cute now that he's out of the Niff gear. Y'know, if you're into gaunt ghostly dudes with a total of two facial expressions: "kicked puppy" and "absolutely vacant."

Still really stiff, but he'll take it.

"Yeah," Noctis shrugs. "That'll work."

"Great. Then let's get the show on the road," Gladio says, hefting up Noctis' bag in impatience. "Feels like we've been on this damn rock for months."

 

===

 

When the unit steps off the rock, it's one of the purest moments of relief he's ever felt.

He represses a full-body shiver as he follows behind the one who disappeared, the large one at his back.

When he'd first stepped onto the rock over a day ago, confused and disoriented, the discomfort it caused had been a vague malaise. But it had grown and grown as time passed, and now escaping it feels like having a steel block moved off his chest. It feels like taking that first gasping breath of air after five minutes underwater.

He'd almost forgotten what the absence of pain felt like — he always does — and he feels dizzy all over again to be wrapped up in its comfort. His feet carry him to the vehicle, but he may as well be floating, body boneless, ichor calm and still.

Clouds cover the sun above them, defusing its harsh rays, and his whole body buzzes pleasantly with how good it feels for the chaos inside him to be settled.

He suddenly realizes how tired he is.

When they reach the vehicle, the large one puts the bag into the back storage compartment and shuts it. 

The one with the glasses is looking up toward the sky. "We'd best put the top up."

He opens the front right door for the unit, and this time the unit is directed to sit down rather than shoved inside. The one with the glasses sits in the pilot seat and starts the ignition. The other two sit in the back. 

The unit hears a quiet mechanical sound, and he looks up to see that a canopy is coming up over the top of the vehicle. Windows like the large one in the front of the vehicle come up to seal the openings in the doors. And then the interior of the vehicle is completely enclosed.

The one with the glasses directs the unit to strap himself into the seat with a diagonal belt.

With the canopy and windows up, even less light is coming into the vehicle. And with the uniform covering much of his skin, the long front of the headwear shading his face, it's almost like he's inside.

The seat is soft. He hadn't noticed that the last time he was in it. The uniform is soft, too, especially the shoes and the shirt and the jacket. The vibrations of the vehicle are soft as it begins to move and pulls onto the road.

After a few minutes, water begins to hit the top of the vehicle, and its quiet pattering is soft, and so is the sound of the twin blades swishing back and forth across the front window. And the unit _himself_ feels soft inside without the constant gnaw of pain.

He can't remember ever being this comfortable. He feels so good that he can barely manage to be anxious about what will come next. He doesn't understand how he gets to have this moment when he knows he doesn't deserve it.

He feels himself become liquid, like those wet drops that race across the windows — body melting into the seat, world washing away around him. Eyelids so heavy, drooping shut even as he fights weakly to keep them open.

He can't sleep. He hasn't been permitted.

But he soon drifts away, no match against the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had quite the busy past few months, oops. I have most of this damn story written but I am so slow and picky with editing.


End file.
